


The Third Mech

by Katharos



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Cybertron, brief descriptions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 14:23:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5420384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katharos/pseuds/Katharos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the end of the Golden Age, everything's coming up turds down in the slums, and Ratchet might be in over his head. It's all very noir.</p><p>(repost of a fic written for a gift exchange)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Third Mech

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Primusatemyleg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Primusatemyleg/gifts).



_Grating chuckles from untuned vocalisers filled his audials as Ratchet curled gasping, around his midsection. Warnings flashed hopefully in the corner of his vision and oh fragging Primus on a pulsar if he had a litre of fuel in his tank he'd throw it up on those neatly curved toes. Toes which were now nudging him over onto his back and Ratchet landed with a crash, staring up at the cavernous ceiling, heaving resentfully. Anti-tank gun would be useful right now, Primus, please and thank you. Frag, a  Pit-damned anti-tank gun with an iron hide and a fragging pink bow on the top if he was wasting his time with half-sparked wishes._

_“I regret the necessity of this persuasion, Sir Medic,” the owner of the toes said, smooth Tower tones rolling with barely a break. “Are you ready to engage me in conversation now perhaps? Or would you prefer to continue your association with my friends?” Joints cracked somewhere in the darkness._

_Ratchet reset his vocaliser. “Where,” he croaked. Cranelift leaned forward, disdainfully lifted eyebrow ridges not concealing the greedy shine in his optic._

_“Yes, sir Medic?”_

_“Where did you download that cheap cracked accent file you rust hinged drone humper,” Ratchet hissed. And the shock in that smug smog-sucker's optics as he reared back was almost the pain that exploded in his helm one second later. He choked on a scream as the world went dark, sparks swimming, before a large hand grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and dragged him upright._  

_“No more games Medic,” Cranelift hissed and Ratchet awarded himself ten points. That Tower accent was definitely slipping. As were the walls. Frag. “Where are my circuit boards?”_

 

 

 

 

The day lights had gone out for a week's emergency energy saving two months ago. The emergency lights were still burning, mostly, but they were harsh things that did frag all except light up a street corner and make all the other shadows blacker. Which got mechs of a certain disposition convinced that they were the perfect places to conduct illegal business in.

“Are you fragging serious,” Ratchet said flatly.

“Shhhhhhhhh!” Fidget – not his real name – hissed frantically, glancing around him. “They'll hear you!”

Ratchet had had a long day. Ratchet had woken up to his neighbour's squat being demolished. Ratchet had spent the rest of the afternoon with a bunch of ungrateful gutter mechs attempting to fix full system failure with nuts and bolts. Ratchet had then spent far too much of his very precious time chasing over all the slums on the slagging planet following a sparkling's treasure code only to end up in the very epitome of cliché dark alleys.

Ratchet was not in the mood.

Ratchet needed the work.

“Let's just go,” he grumbled, turning away.

“Wait!” Fidget scampered after him. “I have to show you the secret way.”

 

 

 

 

One unnecessarily circuitous route later Ratchet stomped into the latest House of Fun, glowering at the door mech's peg leg as he shuffled away. So far Door had resisted all his attempts to get a look at it, but slag him, who was the medic? Ratchet had Plans.

Two more flights of stairs and there was a dark, smelly room full of mechs who turned to face him with all the desperate, awkward eagerness of a cohort of students at an Academy disco.

And Ratchet the one with the spiked punch.

One of the organisers – no names, of course – caught his optic and nodded towards a corner. The crowd, prompted by the old hands at this, shuffled into an orderly queue, and Ratchet shooed the last of his morals into the dark corners of his processor where they could die in peace and got to work.

A few bits of scrap parts. A thimbleful of actual energon. Information. An old rust stick long past its sell by date which Ratchet immediately stuck in his mouth and chewed blissfully. These were the dregs of the dregs of society of course. And what use were credits down here?

By the time he got to the last of his customers his miracle code patch had already started working on the first batch. They were swaying about the room as if it were a dance floor and their partners Tower courtesans, not rusting hunks of metal like everyone else down here.

No one here could afford enough energon to get over charged on and it was the biggest irony of the universe that they were the poor chumps who needed it most. So really Ratchet was performing a slagging public service.

Ratchet stayed propping up his wall. It was a good wall. Toyed with the idea of using his patch on himself, as he always did. He would resist until near the end of the night and then spend all morning drunk out of his processor before crashing until afternoon when he would scrape a marginally functioning mech back together out of the ruins. As he always did.

If he carried on being this cheerful he'd end up taking it early.

“Ratchet Ratchet!” Fidget squeaked, grabbing at his shoulder plates. (“Gerroff me,” growled Ratchet.) “Ratchet, there's a femme over there!”

Ratchet reluctantly tried to pull together a few functioning circuits and peered across the dim room. Probably just a mech with a slender frame – nope that was femme engineering. What the slag were one of them doing slumming it down here?

“Do you think she'd dance with me?” Fidget asked wistfully, obviously having reached the stupidly optimistic portion of the evening.

Ratchet snorted. “Fat chance.” But there was a prickle of unease running up his power cables. He'd seen a couple of femmes down here since his arrival; no one was immune to the energy crisis and even the best engineering lines had a couple of back cybersheep.

But.

He pushed away from the wall and headed for one of the quiet corridors leading of the room, anxious, and annoyed at being anxious, and wanting that patch.

Which was where one of Cranelift's towering intellectual giants had mistaken him for his contact. And where Ratchet had learnt of Cranelift's shipment of smuggled, illegal, top quality medic grade mech circuit boards. And where Ratchet had had a sudden attack of sheer utter stupidity at the delirious dream of what he could  _do_  with those supplies.

Which was why Ratchet had got to that shipment first and scarpered with it, with Fidget's help. Which was why there were twenty or so mechs walking around that'd otherwise be disintegrating scrapheaps heading for deactivation.

Which was why Fidget was a pile of junk parts somewhere on the Old Highway and Ratchet was strung up by the biggest mech he'd ever seen outside the space fleet, about to get his optic pulled out, and so sick at spark he could puke. Sick of himself, sick of Cybertron, sick of the whole multi dimensional fragging universe -

A mech screamed.

Cranelift jerked back, turning towards the door, black scowl on his faceplates. “What-”

Light exploded through the warehouse. Several of the heavies yelped. Ratchet flinched, cycling his optics down.

“This is the Enforcers!” A voice boomed calmly through the light. “All occupants, you are charged with crimes against the Iaconian Senate. Lay down-”

Ratchet fell to the floor with a painful clatter as the mech holding him let go. The rest of the Enforcer's speech was drowned out by gunfire.

“-we are authorised to use force.” The Enforcer finished during a lull. And then there was a lot more gunfire.

For a few minutes Ratchet just lay on the floor where he had fallen. Good floor. Nice floor. Why the frag had he never appreciated the excellent qualities of floors before? Why not just stay here for a while longer then? Hey, the Enforcers were here! They'd save him-

Except no. No, you idiot, you moron, you're scum. You're slum scum, you're the dregs, you're criminal by slagging default had you managed to forget? And criminal by law, false medic, illegal code pusher, accessory to smuggling and crimes against the slagging senate not to forget. 

And oh flaming slag shit that femme. The femme in the bar. He'd seen her around the past few days, or Fidget had, the kid had had a radar, and he'd bet himself ten credits he didn't have that she was out there now with the other fine officers of the law.

A sniper got a good shot in and one of Cranelift's mechs fell. It was the one who'd dislocated his fingers and Ratchet decided to feel good about his abrupt exit from the world instead of sick.

Assuming the Enforcers broke in – which was a safe assumption – he wasn't going to get fixed up and sent on your way, Good Citizen. A nice cell and a trial if someone decided he'd make good media were the best he could hope for and no. Slag no. Primus' flaming exhaust pipe no.

Ratchet gritted his teeth and forced himself to get moving. His body didn't want to. He told it to shut up and get on with it and shut down a few sensory systems which you weren't supposed to touch without trained medical supervision but hey, guess what?

Inch by inch he pulled himself across the floor to the back of the warehouse, where ancient abandoned crates promised potential hiding places. His erstwhile captors didn't even notice.

He managed to get himself outside into the shelter of what might once have been an office before collapsing in a heap of picked clean trash. Gunfire still sounded loud and clear but the Enforcers had decided to just circle the whole compound rather than try to guard all the nooks and crannies of the out buildings. And they wouldn't bother checking once they'd caught their targets. Mission accomplished no Sir we did not exceed mission objectives not one credit more was spent then necessary let me kiss your aft please Sir.

Slag he was tired.

Idly Ratchet called up his own medical readouts, finding a perverse pleasure in using his processor for what it was intended, for once, before it became a piece of junk. There was actually something soothing in watching all those indicators fail. Really.

Cranelift and his lot had worked him over good, and it wasn't as if he'd had many reserves left before that.

He was going to offline here.

To Ratchet's amazement, he was actually able to drag up a bit of resentment at that fact.

 

 

 

 

Someone touched him.

Ratchet made a noise which started life as a sharp “frag off', transmuted into a scream, and ended up crawling out of his slagged vocaliser as a pained groan.

“Oh frag,” a much hated, much missed voice said. “Ratchet?!”

Ratchet cranked his optics open. “You're missing your pink bow you fragger,” he croaked.

“He's delirious,” Ironhide said worriedly, to someone, and Ratchet felt vaguely indignant. Shouldn't your hallucinations pay attention to you?

“I've got the transfusion line set up. Can you manage to carry him back home?” someone asked. Ratchet wanted to tell him he was dead, so don't waste the energon but then Someone was bending over him. Ratchet approved. This hallucination was much prettier. With cute little blue audials.

“Don't worry,” the mech said, smiling gently. There was a hand resting against Ratchet's helm which was nice and his systems were starting to perk up and go hey there's energon! And maybe he wasn't actually dead. “You're safe. Everything is going to be all right.”

Which was how Ratchet met Optimus Prime, the biggest liar since Primus looked upon his work and declared it good.

The difference was Ratchet eventually, maybe, actually believed in Optimus Prime.


End file.
